The drumming began again, hours before Angela’s waters broke, as though signalling our son’s imminent arrival. They resound from beneath the stones of our home, and whenever they commence, the old ruins below shimmer with a faint light. Locals claim it’s the ghosts of Uther’s poisoned men. I know better. I only pray my son never sees these creatures.
‘I have written to my Great-Uncle Henry MacAlpin at Inverary. His son Hal was born last year. Uncle Henry once told me whilst visiting here, that the drums cry out at his castle as well; as though hell itself calls to him. I wrote last month to ask if these shades and spiders ever creep about his halls and upon his ramparts. I await the answer.
‘May the Lord keep us safe! This verse provides solace as I listen to my son’s soft breathing. Job 12:22, which says: He discovereth deep things out of darkness, and bringeth out to light the shadow of death.
‘Oh, Lord, may this be your mission here! To bring light to these menacing shadows! Quicken my heart and sharpen my vision that I may protect my beloved son, I beg you, for I fear I shan’t see Charles live to manhood. Tonight, I feel as though the drums call me to my doom!’
“And there the entry ends,” Kepelheim told them.
Sinclair said nothing, only stared, the leather journal in his hands. His blue eyes closed, and Martin noticed each knuckle whiten upon his fingers.
“My dear friend,” he told Charles, “I know how it must tear at your heart to hear these words, but they reveal your father’s mind that night. I know of only one other man who matches him for integrity and courage, and that is you, his son.”
The table of men had listened with nary a whisper or movement, and the marquess held the bound, leather book to his chest, tears filling his eyes. “This is as close as I’ll ever come to knowing my father, this side of eternity, Martin. Yes, it’s hard to hear his words, but they also comfort me. Thank you for taking the time decipher them. I look forward to reading more of his entries, when you have the time to decode them.”
Henry MacAlpin took a pencil from his pocket and began writing out a series of names on a bit of paper. “He called my father his great-uncle. I’m trying to figure out how that works.”
“I can show you, if you wish, Lord Salperton,” Martin offered. “I’ve all the family lineages, dating back to the 9th century, at my home. And partial lineages going even further back in time, extending past Clovis in some cases. However, in Charles’s case, I believe I must travel to France for my next clues. Uther’s castle provides the starting point.”
“I’ve no idea what you mean,” Sinclair said. “Paul, have you a notion?”
“I think it’s late,” the earl declared, standing. “Charles, you should go sleep. We’ll adjourn to Haimsbury House in the meantime and continue, with your permission, of course.”
“Yes, of course,” his cousin answered. “If Baxter’s still awake, he has my permission to raid the cellars.”
“We’ll ask the good Mr. Baxter to join us, then,” Aubrey said. “Henry, will you come?”
“If you don’t mind an ignorant fellow tagging along, yes, thank you. Charles, send for me should you require medical advice—or anything else.”
The marquess shook the viscount’s hand. “I will. Thank you.”
Sinclair left the gathering and entered Beth’s room. To his great relief, it felt warm and friendly—and safe. Even though the hospital staff had provided him a cot, Charles had no wish to sleep apart from his wife. He removed his coat, waistcoat, and shoulder holster and placed them in a closet along with his shoes and socks. He then slid in beside his wife, still in trousers and shirt, in case a nurse might enter during the night.
How wonderfully warm her body felt, how calming! The bed was quite narrow, forcing the six-foot-three marquess to move as close to his wife as possible, but that only made him happier. She’d turned onto her right side, and he put his left arm around her waist, his fingers touching her abdomen.
“Good night, little one,” he whispered. “And goodnight to you as well, Robby and Georgie. I love you all so very much.”
In a few minutes, his breathing grew regular, and for the first night in many, Charles Sinclair slept deeply without so much as one moment of fear.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
2:45 pm - Monday, 3rd December, 1888
During the next five days, the Stuart clan became a fixture at the busy hospital. The duke visited his granddaughter twice a day, bringing flowers and chocolates for the nursing staff and handing out gold sovereigns and sweets to any children in the wards.
Mr. Blinkmire recovered his eyesight, Riga his shoulder mobility, and Ida Ross grew well enough for release. Charles sent four of his best coaches to collect the Castle Company—as they’d come to be called—and move them into the Queen Anne dower house. Elbert Stanley and David Anderson, formerly called Mr. Thirteen, shared a small apartment on the first floor, whilst Riga and Blinkmire took the slightly larger, corner suite as their own. Ida felt strange living so close to the man she’d admired for years, but Mrs. Alcorn convinced the former prostitute that the family wished only for her comfort, and after much discussion, Ross finally decided to share with Kilmeade. Katrina chose rooms on the second floor. The cooks were hired to provide meals but given their own, private accommodations, and the butler and footman received similar attention. All in all, the castle’s former residents quickly settled into a pleasant routine, and the ladies took turns with cleaning duties.
Delia Wychwright said very little during those five days. Her scratches and bruises began to heal, and Treves suggested she might be released. Her mother, however, insisted the chief surgeon keep her in hospital—as a precaution. Sinclair stopped in one morning to visit the eighteen-year-old, for Paul had told his cousin about Albert Wendaway’s deplorable treatment of the girl.
“I hope you don’t mind if we talk, Lady Cordelia,” the marquess said as he brought a wooden chair close to hers.
Cordelia hated lying in bed, even when unwell, and she’d spent many of the tedious hours walking the corridors, visiting the duchess, or working jigsaws. A lap desk covered in pieces of the French countryside sat upon her knees, and a pot of tea steamed beside a half-empty cup on the nearest table. “Oh, hello, Lord Haimsbury. Talk? What about?”
“Is your mother here this morning?”
“No, but I’m sure she’ll show up soon enough. Father’s at the Exchange, I imagine.”
“Isn’t he an MP?”
“Yes, but Father conducts business at the Exchange very morning. He seldom misses a day.” She tried again and again to force an irregularly shaped piece of sky into a tree branch, despite the colours not fitting in the least. “Is this a friendly talk, Lord Haimsbury, or an official one?”
“I’d rather keep it friendly, but I confess to concern regarding what happened to you last week. We may speak in whispers, if you wish. I have very good hearing. As your mother’s not here, I prefer not to shut the door, for reasons of propriety.”
She smiled, still pressing upon the ill-fitting piece with her thumb. “You must think me a complete and utter nitwit, Lord Haimsbury. Honestly, when I think of the way I behaved the first time I met you, it causes me intense regret. I’m sure you see me as little more than a pampered girl, but I want to be better than that. Truly, I do! I just don’t know where to begin.”
Charles had noticed her behaviour with the puzzle piece, and he wondered if she’d been given medication that altered her thinking. He also noticed several other things about Cordelia Jane Wychwright: The loss of colour to her cheeks, the increase in her breathing, and a slight shift in the position of her body. She appeared to shrink, as though trying to remove herself from the conversation. He’d seen many people behave the same way when being interviewed, but those had been criminals. Why would Delia show such reluctance to speak to him?
“I imagine you’d love to go home,” he said casuall
y. “I know my wife does. Will Treves release you soon?”
“That’s up to Mama.”
“I rather think it’s up to your doctors, Delia. May I call you that?”
“Oh, yes, of course. Why won’t this work?” she complained about the puzzle piece.
Charles gently removed the bit of sky and moved it to the appropriate position. He then found one with green leaves and helped her to place it inside the branch. “Life can be quite confusing at times. I know it is for me. I sometimes feel certain I fit in, and then suddenly I realise I’m all wrong for the job. Did you know I once planned to teach mathematics?”
She looked at him, her eyes round as saucers. “Did you? I can’t imagine anything more dull. Oh, forgive me! That was rude.”
He laughed, amiably. “No, you’re right! It is dull, but then I was dull. My late wife thought so, anyway. She wanted me to become a solicitor, actually, but if I had, I’ve never have met the duchess. Because I took a job as a policeman, I was there the night she needed me.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“Beth was the victim of a crime long ago, and I helped solve it,” he answered, offering a simplistic explanation. “All I’m saying is God’s plans for our lives don’t always move in a straight line. Mathematics still serves me well, though I’m not a teacher. Have you plans for the future?”
Her hands started to tremble. “I’m not sure I have a future. Not now.”
“Why is that? Delia, you have all the things a young woman could desire. Beauty, position, opportunity.”
“Do you think I’m pretty?”
“Certainly.”
“Mama says I’m fat and useless. She hates me,” she said suddenly.
Cordelia’s face paled, and Charles glanced out the open door to make sure the baroness hadn’t returned. “I doubt that’s true. Why would you think she hates you?”
“Because I’m damaged. I cannot prove it, but I think she had a hand in it. Albert, I mean. Why would a mother do that?”
Something about her behaviour set off alarm bells. He’d seen mannerisms like this far too often in far too many young girls. “Delia, what did Sir Albert do?”
“Nothing.”
“Was he your escort into Whitechapel last week?”
“Escort?” she repeated, her fingers dancing as though counting. “I don’t know. Was it last week?”
“Delia, I want to help you. As a friend. I hope you know that.”
To his surprise, her entire demeanor altered. Her facial muscles relaxed, her hands stopped fidgeting with the puzzle pieces, and her constantly moving eyes settled firmly on his. “You consider me a friend?”
“I do,” he assured her in a soft voice. “A good friend. Tell me about Sir Albert.”
“I thought he was nice,” she whispered. “He isn’t nice.”
“Why not?”
She looked away, her attention on the window. “My friend Davina Southwoood thinks he’s dreamy, but he isn’t. He’s cruel and selfish and quite awful!”
“What happened last week? How did you end up at the Exchange?”
She took a deep breath, and then started working the puzzle again. “Why are men so very cruel sometimes?”
Sinclair considered the question, not only as one related to criminal intent, but to morality. “Delia, did Albert hurt you?”
Her hands tensed. “No.”
“I lay no blame on you, Cordelia. If he overstepped with you in any way, then you may tell me. Did he kiss you?”
She nodded, the sinews of her neck tightening as she selected a piece to add to the tree.
“Were these kisses mere affection or something more? Were they intimate?”
“I cannot say,” she answered and moved the tree piece to the grassy area.
The marquess slid his chair closer and took the piece from her and set it aside. He then took her hands into his. “I am your friend, Delia. Think of me as your defender, your very own knight, and my job is to vanquish anyone who might wish to harm you. Tell me, did Albert touch you in any way that was improper?”
Her shoulders began to spasm, and her lower lip quivered. “Please, don’t tell my parents! Please! I beg you! It’s why I had to run away from him, you see. I told everyone it was the noise and blood of the boxing match, but it was Albert. He wanted to... He tried to...! He... Oh, you must think me a terrible harlot! I’m ruined! Ruined!”
He moved the lap desk to the side and drew Cordelia into his arms, holding her as she wept. “You did nothing wrong.”
“Why did I let him?” she sobbed. “I tried to fight it, I did!”
“Hush now. Albert will answer for his actions. I promise you. What he did is a crime, Delia. My job as your knight is to see he pays for that crime. I’ll find Wendaway and arrest him.”
“I hate him!” she wept into his shoulder. “I wish to never see his awful face again! Am I so pitifully useless that he’d think me easy prey? I thought he liked me.”
“Delia, have you spoken to my wife about any of this?”
She nodded again. “Yes, and she said I should tell you, but if Paul ever found out, I’d die!”
“He should know, Delia. If you really want a relationship with Paul, then allow me to tell him. Will you do that?”
“He’ll hate me! He mustn’t know!”
“No, he won’t hate you. Now, I think you should rest. Don’t worry about any of this. Let me take care of everything. Will you do that?”
“Will you talk with my mother? She mustn’t know I told you.”
“I shan’t say a word without talking to you first.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
“Thank you. You’re very kind,” she whispered, hiccupping from release of strain. “My own brothers are never as kind as you.”
He kissed her on the forehead. “That’s a very nice thing to say. Would you like some cocoa to help you to relax?”
“Yes, please. With peppermint.”
He smiled. “I’ll see to the peppermint. My wife likes it that way as well. Don’t let any of this worry you from now on. Let me handle it.”
The marquess left the room and shut the door, waving to Sister Reston as he crossed the corridor. “Sister, could you have some cocoa delivered to Lady Cordelia? With peppermint, if you have any. Also, is Dr. Gehlen available?”
“Yes, he is, my lord. In the doctors’ library across the park. It’s raining, sir. Shall I find an umbrella?”
“No, I doubt rain will hurt me. Thank you.”
He left the main building and walked through familiar gardens, winter-weary from the snow, and then crossed the large gravel park until he reached the Medical College. The main foyer was a sea of chattering students, discussing a lecture given by Frederick Treves on when and how to perform appendicectomies as well as indications for post-operative care. The class of thirty students had formed into two groups, one arguing over the demonstration they’d just observed, whilst the other debated the benefits of completely different topics such as gambling, tuition, fine clothing, and most of all—women. Charles passed through the crowd and turned towards the main office. Inside, he found three men: Frederick Treves, an older gentleman in business dress, and Anthony Gehlen.
“Charles, this is a pleasant surprise! What brings you to the college?” Treves asked his friend. “Thinking of adding Doctor to your many titles?”
“You’re Haimsbury, aren’t you?” the older gentleman asked. “Sir Nigel Willoughby. I’m on the board of governors for the hospital. Your wife is an absolute delight, sir. Absolute delight! She’s picked my brain until it’s sore about the ways and means of funding a charity hospital. I warned her that it’s a very expensive and thankless endeavour, but I don’t think she paid me any heed.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sir Nigel. The d
uchess has very definite ideas about that hospital. You’ll not dissuade her, and I could not be more proud. Dr. Gehlen, I wonder if you have a moment?”
“Certainly,” the tall physician answered. “Here, or would you prefer more privacy? There’s a rather cramped office I’ve been using, just down the hall.”
“Yes, I’d like to speak in private. Thank you.”
The two men left, and in a few minutes sat together in a tiny office near the west end of the building. “I call this my broom closet,” Gehlen joked. “Drink?” he asked, opening a drawer in the desk and removing a dusty bottle of whisky. “It was gifted to me by the closet’s previous tenant, a fellow who taught chemistry. I’ve no idea if this is a good distiller or not, to be honest. I never indulge myself.”
“No, thank you.”
“Teetotaler like me, then?”
“Hardly. I’m the Duke of Drummond’s nephew. He’d disown me. However, I try to avoid spirits when I have important matters to discuss.”
“Do you refer to the duchess?”
“No. Actually, it’s a possible criminal case. I could call our police surgeon, but I fear that would cause the lady needless embarrassment. Am I right in thinking that you’ve been tending Lady Cordelia Wychwright?”
Gehlen took a deep breath, leaning against the chair’s high back as he pondered the question. “I’ve seen her a few times along with Treves. Wychwright’s mother is one of those social climbers who sees doctors as a form of jewellery. We’re there to make her look more impressive to friends, therefore, the more doctors you can show off, the more you impress. Why?”
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